The days bled together in a strange, suspended monotony.

You woke when sunlight filtered through the paper screens of your estate. Ate meals that appeared on your doorstep—delivered by whom, you never saw. Wandered the grounds when restlessness clawed at your insides, your flower crown wilting and being replaced by new ones you wove with increasingly steady hands. And always, always, Gojo was there.

Not physically present every moment—he had classes to teach, missions to complete, responsibilities that pulled him away. But you felt him. His cursed energy was like a lighthouse beacon, constant and overwhelming, sweeping across the campus in regular intervals. Checking. Monitoring. Claiming.

Two more days passed before he made his announcement.

"Tomorrow," he said, materializing in your doorway without knocking because of course he didn't knock. His sunglasses caught the late afternoon light, twin mirrors reflecting your unimpressed expression back at you. "Tomorrow I'm introducing you to my students. Properly this time."

You looked up from the book you'd been pretending to read—some treatise on cursed technique theory that Shoko had lent you, filled with diagrams and terminology that felt simultaneously alien and instinctively familiar. "And I have a choice in this?"

Gojo's smile was sharp enough to cut. "Of course you do. You can come willingly, or I can carry you. Either way works for me."

Bastard.

But you closed the book and set it aside, your fingers smoothing over the worn cover one last time before you looked back at him. "Fine. Tomorrow."

"Excellent!" He clapped his hands together, the sound unnaturally loud in the small space. "Wear something nice. First impressions matter."

"I'm a god. Every impression is the first impression, repeated infinitely across time and space."

"Wear something nice anyway."

He vanished before you could throw the book at his head.

Tomorrow arrived with all the inevitability of an execution.

You stood in front of the small mirror in your bathroom—an old thing with a wooden frame that had probably been beautiful once but now showed its age in water stains and warped edges. Your reflection stared back, and for a long moment, you simply observed.

When did I start caring what I looked like?

You'd chosen simple clothes—dark pants that allowed for movement, a loose shirt in deep green that reminded you of forest canopies, boots that were broken in enough to run in if necessary. Your hair was still wild, untameable despite your attempts to smooth it down, but you'd managed to work it into something that looked intentionally messy rather than accidentally feral.

The flower crown from yesterday sat wilted on your dresser. You didn't make a new one.

Three sharp knocks echoed through your estate. Not Gojo—his pattern was always erratic, jazz music translated into door percussion. This was measured. Professional.

"Y/N-san?" A woman's voice, slightly muffled through the door. "Gojo-sensei sent me to escort you to the training grounds."

You opened the door to find a young woman in a Tokyo Jujutsu High uniform—navy blue with brass buttons, crisp despite the warmth of the day. Her hair was brown, pulled back in a practical style, and her eyes held the perpetually exhausted look of someone who'd seen too much and been unimpressed by all of it.

"Ieiri Shoko," she introduced herself, not bothering with formality. A cigarette dangled from her fingers, smoke curling upward in lazy spirals. "I'm the school doctor. Also the person who gets stuck with Gojo's cleanup duty, apparently."

You blinked. "Cleanup duty?"

"Making sure you actually show up and don't just bolt into the woods." She took a long drag from her cigarette, exhaling away from you with practiced courtesy. "Not that I'd blame you. If Satoru told me he was introducing me to a group of teenagers who could kill me with their pinkies, I'd consider running too."

Despite yourself, you felt your lips twitch. "Can they? Kill me with their pinkies?"

"Some of them could probably give it a decent try." Shoko shrugged. "Depends on whether you bleed. Do you bleed?"

"Sometimes."

"Then they could kill you. Eventually. Maybe." She gestured with her cigarette toward the main campus. "Come on. Let's get this over with. I have three surgeries scheduled this afternoon and Gojo's already wasted forty minutes of my day with his 'grand plan.'"

You followed her out of the estate, through the bamboo grove that whispered and swayed in the morning breeze. The path was packed earth, worn smooth by years of foot traffic, and it wound between buildings that grew progressively larger and more impressive as you approached the heart of campus.

"Fair warning," Shoko said conversationally, not looking back at you as she walked. "The kids are going to stare. They're going to have questions. And Gojo has probably told them exactly nothing useful, so they're going to be operating on pure speculation and rumor."

"What kind of rumors?"

"Oh, the usual. That you're a Special Grade curse he captured. That you're a foreign sorcerer from some hidden clan. That you're his secret girlfriend—though I think Yuji put that one to rest." She glanced back over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. "For what it's worth, I haven't told anyone what I observed when I examined your wounds last week."

Your hand instinctively went to your arm, where the Rex's bite had been. The flesh was smooth now, unblemished, healed with the kind of perfection that didn't exist in nature—or shouldn't.

"What did you observe?" you asked quietly.

Shoko stopped walking. Turned to face you fully, her cigarette burning down to ash between her fingers.

"That you heal wrong," she said simply. "Your cells don't just regenerate—they remember. Like your body has a blueprint of what it should be and refuses to accept any deviation. That's not cursed energy healing. That's not even reversed curse technique. That's something else entirely."

She took a final drag and ground the cigarette out beneath her heel.

"I don't know what you are, Y/N-san. But I know you're not human. And I know that whatever Gojo's planning—whatever he's doing with you—it's going to end badly for someone." Her eyes held yours, sharp and assessing. "I just hope it's not you."

Before you could respond, she was moving again, rounding the corner of a large building that opened onto a massive training ground.

And there they were.

The students stood in a loose semicircle on the packed earth of the training area, surrounded by training dummies, weapon racks, and obstacle courses that spoke of endless hours of combat preparation. The morning sun cast long shadows behind them, and every single one of them turned to look as you approached.

Yuji was there, his pink hair unmistakable even from a distance. He waved enthusiastically the moment he spotted you, that puppy-dog energy undimmed despite the formal setting. Beside him stood a boy with dark, spiky hair and an expression of practiced boredom that didn't quite hide his intense observation—Fushiguro Megumi, you assumed from Gojo's descriptions. His hands were shoved in his pockets, but his posture was ready, coiled.

Next to Megumi, a girl with short auburn hair and a hammer slung over her shoulder like it weighed nothing, examined you with the kind of frank assessment usually reserved for livestock at market. Kugisaki Nobara. Her expression was somewhere between curious and challenging.

A tall girl with dark green hair and glasses stood slightly apart from the first-years, one hand resting on what looked like a spear. Zenin Maki—no cursed energy, all physical power, the one who'd proven you didn't need divine gifts to be dangerous.

A boy in high collar that obscured half his face stood beside Maki, completely still except for his eyes, which tracked your every movement with unnerving precision. Inumaki Toge. The cursed speech user who spoke in rice ball ingredients to avoid accidentally commanding reality.

And Panda—because apparently, this school had a giant panda as a student, and you were still processing that particular piece of information—sat on his haunches, massive and fluffy and somehow radiating intelligence that belied his appearance.

There were others, too. Older students you didn't recognize, a few faculty members observing from the sidelines. But before you could catalog them all, the air pressure changed.

Gojo appeared in the center of the training ground.

He didn't walk in. Didn't approach from any visible direction. He simply was, materializing with the casual confidence of someone who could fold space like origami. His hands were in his pockets, his posture relaxed, but you could feel the attention of every person present snap to him like iron filings to a magnet.

"Good morning, everyone!" His voice carried across the training ground, cheerful and bright and completely at odds with the tension that had suddenly filled the space. "Thanks for coming on such short notice. I know you all have busy schedules—training, missions, homework you're definitely not ignoring—"

"Sensei," Nobara interrupted flatly. "Get to the point."

Gojo's grin widened. "Right, right. So!" He turned, extending one hand toward you in a gesture that was half introduction, half presentation. "This is Y/N. She's been staying on campus for the past couple weeks, and I thought it was time for proper introductions."

Silence.

You could feel dozens of eyes on you, assessing, wondering, calculating. Your skin prickled with awareness, every predatory instinct you possessed screaming that you were surrounded, outnumbered, exposed.

But you've always been exposed, a voice whispered in your mind. Gods don't hide. They endure.

You stepped forward, your boots crunching against the packed earth, and met their stares with your own.

"I'm Y/N," you said, your voice carrying clearly despite not raising it. "I'm... complicated. But Gojo thought you should know I exist, so. Here I am."

"Complicated how?" Nobara asked immediately, her grip shifting on her hammer. Not threatening—not yet—but ready.

You glanced at Gojo. He was still smiling, offering no guidance, no script to follow. This is a test, you realized. He wants to see how I handle this.

Fine.

"I'm not a sorcerer," you said slowly, choosing each word with care. "I'm not a curse. I'm something older. Something that doesn't fit into your categories. My cursed technique—if you can call it that—involves songs. Reality-altering songs. And sometimes I transform into things that shouldn't exist."

"What kind of things?" Megumi asked, his dark eyes sharp.

You thought of the Rex, of scales and teeth and primal fury. Of every form you'd ever taken, every shape violence had demanded of you.

"Dangerous things," you answered honestly.

"Cool!" Yuji's enthusiasm shattered the tension like a hammer through glass. "Can you show us? Not the dangerous part—well, maybe the dangerous part if it's safe—but the transformation thing? That sounds amazing!"

"Itadori," Megumi sighed, long-suffering.

"What? It does!"

"Salmon," Inumaki agreed, nodding.

Before the situation could spiral further, Maki stepped forward. Her eyes—sharp, assessing, missing nothing—swept over you from head to toe.

"You don't have cursed energy," she said flatly. "I can tell. There's something around you, but it's not cursed energy."

"No," you confirmed. "It's not."

"But you can fight?"

It wasn't really a question. More of a challenge dressed up in interrogative clothing.

You smiled—small, dangerous, the expression of something that had survived millennia by being better at violence than anything else.

"Yes. I can fight."

Maki's lips curved into something that might have been approval. "Good. I hate when people waste my time with weaklings."

"Maki-senpai," Yuji protested. "Be nice!"

"I am being nice. I didn't challenge her to a spar immediately."

"Yet," Panda added helpfully. "She didn't challenge her yet."

The atmosphere had shifted. Still wary, still uncertain, but the hostility had bled away into something more curious. These were students who'd been trained to assess threats, to categorize and respond to danger with brutal efficiency. And you...

You were an unknown variable. Potentially dangerous. Definitely unusual.

But not an immediate threat.

Progress, you thought wryly.

Gojo clapped his hands together again, drawing attention back to himself. "Alright! Now that we've established Y/N isn't going to eat anyone—"

"I never said that," you interjected mildly.

"—probably isn't going to eat anyone," Gojo amended without missing a beat, "let's talk ground rules. Y/N is staying in the guest estate behind the bamboo grove. That area is off-limits unless explicitly invited. She's not a student, not a teacher, not a curse to be exorcised. She's... a work in progress. A project. Someone I'm helping adjust to—"

"A prisoner?" Megumi interrupted quietly.

The training ground went silent.

Gojo's smile didn't falter, but something shifted in his posture. Something cold. Dangerous.

"A guest," he corrected, his voice still light but carrying an edge that could cut steel. "One who's choosing to stay. Right, Y/N?"

Every eye turned back to you.

Am I choosing this?

The question echoed in your mind, finding no easy answer. You thought of the forest, of blood and violence and loneliness stretching into infinity. You thought of Gojo's arms around your waist, possessive and protective and suffocating. You thought of Yuji's smile, of Shoko's quiet understanding, of this strange place that was starting to feel almost like—

"Right," you heard yourself say. "I'm choosing to stay."

For now.

The words hung unspoken in the air, but you suspected Megumi heard them anyway. His eyes narrowed slightly, and when he looked at Gojo, there was something calculating in his expression.

He doesn't trust this, you realized. He doesn't trust Gojo's motives. Smart boy.

"Excellent!" Gojo's cheerfulness returned full force, the moment of tension passing as quickly as it had arrived. "Any other questions? Concerns? Existential crises you need to work through?"

"Just one," Nobara said, lowering her hammer to rest its head on the ground. "What do we call you? Y/N-san? Y/N-sama? Hey-you-weird-transformation-lady?"

Despite everything—the tension, the scrutiny, the weight of dozens of judgments being formed in real-time—you laughed.

It surprised you as much as anyone else. The sound bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest, genuine and unbidden, and for a moment, you felt almost human.

"Y/N is fine," you said when you could speak again. "Just Y/N."

"Boring," Nobara declared, but she was smiling. "But okay. Y/N it is."

The formal introduction dissolved after that into smaller conversations. Yuji bounced over immediately, his enthusiasm infectious as he introduced you properly to Megumi and Nobara. Panda ambled closer, asking surprisingly philosophical questions about existence and creation that you found yourself actually enjoying. Inumaki communicated in his rice ball code, and while you couldn't understand the specifics, his body language was friendly enough.

Maki kept her distance but watched with assessing eyes. The older students observed from their positions, curious but not intrusive.

And through it all, Gojo stood at the center of the training ground, his presence overwhelming even when silent, his attention never straying far from you.

Possessive, you thought again. He's making sure they know I'm his.

But for now, surrounded by curious students and tentative acceptance, you decided not to examine that thought too closely.

For now, you would smile and answer questions and pretend that being introduced like a new acquisition didn't make something in your chest feel tight and wrong.

For now, you would play the part of guest, of project, of work-in-progress.

And you would ignore the small voice whispering that gods don't have keepers.

Even when the keeper looks like freedom.

The shopping district of Tokyo sprawled before you like a living organism—neon signs flickering even in daylight, the constant thrum of humanity moving in currents and eddies through narrow streets lined with storefronts. The air smelled of takoyaki from a nearby stand, exhaust fumes from passing cars, and the distinctive sharp-sweet scent of dozens of perfumes mixing into an olfactory chaos that would have overwhelmed you a few weeks ago.

Now, you navigated it with something approaching comfort.

The bag on your shoulder—a simple canvas thing with a cartoon cat printed on the side, purchased from a street vendor after you'd admitted to Yuji that you didn't actually own a bag—bounced against your hip with each step. Inside: a new book Megumi had recommended with barely concealed skepticism ("You probably won't like it, but Gojo-sensei said you needed more cultural context"), a package of the mochi Panda had insisted was "essential to the human experience," and a small potted succulent that Nobara had shoved at you with a gruff "Even weird divine beings need hobbies."

Friends, you thought, testing the word in your mind like a strange flavor on your tongue. Are these what friends do? Give you things and make demands disguised as suggestions?

You'd been out for three hours—longer than Gojo usually allowed, but he was on a mission in Kyoto and couldn't exactly stop you. The freedom felt strange. Electric. Slightly dangerous, like touching a live wire and not quite knowing if it would shock or simply hum beneath your fingers.

The crowd flowed around you, each person lost in their own world, their own concerns. A salary man rushed past, phone pressed to his ear, his cursed energy a dull gray cloud of stress and exhaustion. A young mother herded two children ahead of her, their bright laughter cutting through the urban noise. An elderly woman examined vegetables at a produce stand, her weathered hands testing firmness with the expertise of decades.

They're all so fragile, you mused. Every single one of them could break so easily.

You turned down a side street, taking a shortcut back toward the train station that would carry you to Jujutsu High. The crowds thinned here, the buildings older, the paint more faded. Laundry hung from balconies overhead, creating a canopy of domestic life suspended above the street. A cat watched you from a window ledge, its yellow eyes tracking your movement with feline suspicion.

And then you saw him.

He sat slumped against a brick wall, half-hidden in the shadow cast by a recessed doorway. Young—probably late teens or early twenties—with shaggy hair that might have been dark brown or black, hard to tell with the way it fell across his face. His clothes were civilian casual, nothing remarkable: jeans, a gray hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

But it was the cuts that made you stop.

They covered his exposed forearms in thin, precise lines—dozens of them, maybe hundreds, crisscrossing his pale skin like some macabre form of calligraphy. The cuts were shallow, barely bleeding, weeping only thin trails of crimson that had dried in places and remained fresh in others. Some looked hours old. Some looked like they'd been there for days.

Self-inflicted, was your first thought. He's been cutting himself.

But something about the pattern was wrong. Too regular. Too deliberate. Not the frantic, desperate wounds of someone seeking release or punishment, but something else. Something that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

Your instincts screamed.

Danger. Predator. THREAT.

Every sense you possessed identified this young man as something that should not be approached, should not be engaged with, should be avoided at all costs. The air around him felt wrong—not cursed energy exactly, but something adjacent to it. Something that made your skin crawl and your muscles tense in preparation for violence.

You blinked, trying to reconcile what your eyes saw with what your instincts howled.

He looked up.

His eyes were gray—pale, almost colorless in the shadowed doorway. They met yours with the flat affect of someone who'd stopped processing emotion somewhere along the way. No fear at being caught in this state. No embarrassment. Just... nothing.

"Who are you?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, your voice rough with confusion and something that might have been concern.

Why do I care? I shouldn't care. He's dangerous. Everything about him screams danger.

The young man's lips curved into something that might have been a smile if smiles could be empty. He said nothing, just reached down with movements that were too fluid, too controlled, and pulled up the hem of his hoodie.

Your breath caught.

A wound gaped across his abdomen—not a cut, but a gash, deep enough that you could see layers of tissue beneath the skin. It should have been bleeding profusely. Should have required immediate medical attention. Should have had this young man doubled over in agony.

Instead, he displayed it like a curiosity. A thing of passing interest. His expression remained neutral, almost curious, as if he was interested in seeing how you'd react.

You grimaced, your hand instinctively moving to cover your own stomach in sympathetic horror. The wound was wrong on multiple levels—the edges too clean, the depth too precise, the complete lack of appropriate blood flow. It looked almost surgical, but surgical implied purpose, care, medical necessity.

This was just... destruction.

"That needs treatment," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "Hospital. Now."

He shook his head slowly, the movement deliberate. His eyes never left yours.

He's testing me, you realized. This is a test. But for what?

Your nerves continued screaming their warnings. Every instinct inherited from millennia of survival told you to walk away, to leave this dangerous thing in its shadowed doorway and return to the relative safety of Jujutsu High where Gojo's overwhelming presence kept the truly dangerous things at bay.

But.

You're the Alpha and Omega, you reminded yourself. The beginning and the end. The one who existed before fear was conceptualized. You don't run from danger—danger runs from you.

Usually.

You reached into your bag—the stupid cartoon cat bag that Yuji had been so proud to pick out with you last weekend—and extracted one of the apples you'd bought. Fresh, crisp, the skin so red it was almost glossy in the filtered sunlight. You'd bought them on impulse, drawn by their color, their simple perfection.

You held it out to him.

"Here," you said. "Eat something. Then come with me."

The young man stared at the apple like it was an alien artifact. His gray eyes flicked from the fruit to your face and back again, searching for something—mockery, perhaps, or some hidden cruelty.

Finding none, he took it.

His fingers brushed yours in the exchange—cool, almost cold despite the warmth of the day. The touch sent a shiver up your arm that had nothing to do with temperature.

Wrong wrong wrong wrong—

"Come on," you said, already turning away, already walking. You didn't look back to see if he'd follow. Either he would or he wouldn't. Either way, you'd made your offer.

Footsteps echoed behind you after a moment. Slow. Measured. Not the walk of someone injured but the careful pace of someone who was deciding, with each step, whether to continue.

You led him deeper into the side streets, away from the main thoroughfares where crowds might see and question and interfere. The alleys here were narrow, barely wide enough for two people to pass comfortably, lined with overflowing dumpsters and the back entrances to restaurants that filled the air with conflicting food smells—frying oil, fermented soybeans, the sharp vinegar tang of pickling brine.

This is insane, part of your mind whispered. You're leading a dangerous unknown into a secluded area where no one will see if something happens.

Good, another part replied. If he tries something, I can handle it without witnesses.

You stopped in an alley that dead-ended against a tall fence, graffiti covering its surface in layers of spray-painted rebellion. Trash bags were piled to one side, and a rusted bicycle frame leaned against the opposite wall, stripped of anything valuable long ago.

Perfect privacy.

You set down your bag and rummaged through it, pushing aside the book and the mochi and the succulent until you found what you'd purchased on impulse from a pharmacy three blocks back—a basic first aid kit. Bandages, antiseptic, medical tape. The essentials for dealing with minor injuries.

This is not a minor injury, your brain reminded you helpfully.

I'm aware.

The young man had followed you into the alley. He stood a few feet away, still holding the apple but not eating it, his gray eyes tracking your every movement with that unnerving intensity.

You sat down on the relatively clean patch of concrete near the fence, cross-legged, and patted the ground beside you in invitation.

He hesitated.

There it is, you thought. The first sign of actual emotion. Uncertainty.

After a long moment, he lowered himself to sit beside you—not close enough to touch, but near enough that you could reach him. He still clutched the apple in one hand, and you noticed for the first time that his fingernails were bitten down to the quick, the cuticles raw and inflamed.

Self-harm, you cataloged. Multiple types. This isn't just the cuts. This is comprehensive self-destruction.

"What's your name?" you asked, your voice deliberately gentle as you opened the first aid kit and began laying out supplies.

He shook his head. The movement was firm, final.

He doesn't want to talk. Can't? Or won't?

You made a mental note of it and said nothing more, just began preparing the bandages. Your hands moved with practiced efficiency—not from medical training, but from millennia of tending to your own wounds in forests and caves and places where healing required self-sufficiency.

"I'm going to touch the wound now," you warned, giving him the chance to refuse. "It's going to hurt. Try not to move."

He nodded once. Permission granted.

You reached out slowly, telegraphing your movements, and gently pulled up his hoodie. The wound was even worse up close—deep enough that you could see the pale line of what might have been intestinal tissue, the edges ragged despite their surgical precision. It should have been fatal. At minimum, it should have been causing sepsis, infection, shock.

Instead, the young man sat calmly, breathing steady, as if his abdomen wasn't partially open to the air.

What are you?

You didn't ask aloud. Just began cleaning the wound with antiseptic-soaked gauze, dabbing gently at the edges. He didn't flinch. Didn't make a sound. Just watched you work with those empty gray eyes.

The bandaging took longer than it should have. You had to layer the gauze multiple times to cover the full extent of the damage, then secure it with strips of medical tape that probably wouldn't hold if he moved too vigorously. It was a stopgap measure at best, a band-aid on a bullet hole.

When you finished, you sat back and examined your work. The white bandages stood out starkly against his pale skin, already showing small spots of seepage where the wound continued its minimal bleeding.

"There," you said, more to break the silence than anything else. "But you need to go to a hospital. A real one. This needs stitches—dozens of them. Maybe surgery. Probably antibiotics. I can't—"

You stopped.

Can't what? Can't help more? That's a lie.

The young man continued watching you, waiting.

You sighed, the sound heavy with resignation and something that might have been frustration. "I haven't used my powers much since I started living with Satoru."

Why am I telling him this? Why does it matter?

"But a few things don't hurt."

You reached out again, placing your palm flat against the bandaged area. The young man tensed—the first real reaction you'd gotten from him beyond head shakes and empty stares.

You closed your eyes and reached.

Not with your hand, but with something deeper. The power that existed before power had a name, the force that had shaped reality when reality was still figuring out what it wanted to be. It rose within you like a tide, golden and warm and ancient, responding to your will with the ease of breathing.

Heal, you commanded. Remember what you should be. Return to wholeness.

The power flowed down your arm and into the wound beneath your palm. You felt it spread through damaged tissue, knitting cells back together, reconstructing what had been destroyed. The sensation was odd—not painful, but intense, like watching a video play in reverse at high speed.

Golden light bloomed beneath your hand, seeping through the bandages, bright enough to be visible even through the layers of gauze. It pulsed once, twice, three times in rhythm with your heartbeat.

The young man jumped, a sharp gasp escaping his lips—the first real sound you'd heard him make. His hands came up as if to push you away, but he stopped himself, fingers hovering inches from your arm.

You held steady, letting the power complete its work. The light faded gradually, dimming from brilliant gold to soft amber to nothing, and when it was gone, you pulled your hand back.

Your palm tingled with residual energy. You flexed your fingers, working out the strange sensation, and met the young man's eyes.

He stared at you like you'd just performed a miracle.

Or a curse, you thought. Depending on his perspective.

Slowly, hesitantly, he pulled up his hoodie again to reveal—

Smooth skin.

The wound was gone. Not healed in the traditional sense, with scars and pink new tissue, but gone. Erased. As if it had never existed in the first place. Even the dozens of small cuts on his arms had faded to faint white lines, barely visible.

"Thank you."

His voice was barely a whisper, rough from disuse, but unmistakably genuine. Relief flooded through you—at least you wouldn't have to heal his vocal cords. That was always complicated, involved far too much anatomical precision that made your head hurt.

You smiled, surprising yourself with how natural the expression felt. "You're welcome."

Standing, you brushed off your pants and shouldered your bag once more. The cartoon cat grinned at you from the canvas, cheerfully oblivious to the strangeness of the last twenty minutes.

"Take care of yourself," you said, taking a few steps toward the mouth of the alley. "And... maybe see someone. About the cutting. There are people who can help with that."

Like I'm one to talk about healthy coping mechanisms.

The young man nodded, still touching his abdomen where the wound had been, his expression caught somewhere between wonder and confusion.

You raised your hand in a small wave. "Have a good day."

Then you turned and walked away, leaving him sitting in that trash-lined alley with his apple and his healed wounds and whatever thoughts were processing behind those gray eyes.

You didn't look back.

The train ride back to Jujutsu High passed in a blur of tunnels and fluorescent lighting. You stared at your reflection in the darkened window, watching the ghost of yourself overlap with the rushing darkness outside.

What did I just do?

The question circled your mind like a vulture. You'd revealed your power—blatantly, obviously—to a complete stranger whose name you didn't even know. Someone who was clearly dangerous, clearly wrong in ways you couldn't articulate but felt in your bones.

Gojo is going to be furious.

The thought brought a strange mix of anxiety and defiance. Part of you—the part that remembered being worshipped, being free—wanted to snarl that you didn't answer to anyone, that your power was yours to use as you saw fit.

But another part, newer and more uncertain, whispered that maybe keeping secrets from the person who'd given you shelter wasn't the wisest move.

I'll tell him, you decided. When he gets back from Kyoto. I'll tell him about the young man and the healing and—

The train lurched to a stop at your station.

You gathered your bag and stepped onto the platform, joining the flow of passengers heading for the exits. The evening air was cooler now, the sun beginning its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple.

By the time you reached the bamboo grove that concealed your estate, full dark had fallen. The stalks whispered their endless conversations, and somewhere in the distance, you could hear the evening training session winding down—the crack of wood on wood, someone's frustrated shout, Panda's distinctive laughter.

Home, you thought, testing the word.

It still didn't quite fit.

But it was closer than it had been.

You slid open the door to your estate, already thinking about tea and the book Megumi had recommended and maybe attempting to keep that succulent alive for more than a week.

You were completely unaware that in a trash-lined alley across the city, a young man with gray eyes and newly healed wounds sat staring at his hands, your golden light still burned into his retinas like an afterimage.

You were completely unaware that you'd just changed everything.

That the Alpha and Omega, in a moment of compassion, had just healed the one person in Tokyo who should have remained broken.

The curse user called Mahito smiled in his shadowed alley, his Domain already beginning to form around him, and thought about the strange woman who'd just shown him something fascinating.

Something he very much wanted to take apart and understand.

Piece by piece.